


Square Inch

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach reunion between Sherlock and Lestrade. Sherlock doesn't understand why Lestrade is reacting so heavily to his return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square Inch

Sherlock doesn't know what to expect from his reunion with Lestrade, but this isn't it. He wouldn't have thought of this in a million years. Lestrade's arms are around him, and it feels like he won't let go. 

And he starts _crying_ too. There's a lot of very real, very personal data to deduce from, and Sherlock is confused. He's overloaded with Lestrade's...feelings, which he drips over the both of them like so much snot. Sure, Lestrade has always been there for Sherlock, including some moments when he probably shouldn't have been. His loyalty is topped only by John's, and that's saying something.

But they'd been acquaintances, hadn't they? Just colleagues.

Moriarty had seemed to think they were friends. Sherlock shifts a little, trying to make Lestrade's gripping less awkward by tightening his hold as well. "Greg?" he murmurs carefully.

That does the trick, though Sherlock hasn't meant it to. Lestrade sucks in a gasp of air and loosens his grip, sagging against Sherlock. "Sh'rl'ck," he mutters in a warm huff against his coat-covered shoulder. "Ah Sherlock. Sorry. I'm a mess."

Sherlock carefully rubs at Lestrade's back in a practiced manner, then pushes him away, creating a gap between their bodies. He sets a hand on either of Lestrade's shoulders. Lestrade's eyes still stream with tears of relief and something else, and his nose still drips. He's probably gotten his tears and mucous on Sherlock's coat. But that's not supposed to matter in times like these, Sherlock recalls.

Sherlock pats the ex-decective inspector on the back with care. "So we really are friends?" he asks. He wants some sort of an explanation for the display. Surely acquaintances wouldn't be blubbering.

Lestrade curses, frustrated, and starts to cry again. Sherlock takes a step back. He feels startled, and guilty as well.

"I'm...I'm sorry if...." He's well out of his depth. "Well, I'm just sorry," he says sharply.

Lestrade's trembling arms extend. He reaches out for Sherlock again, gripping at his coat, leaning against him. "No, I'm sorry," he rasps. "So sorry."

"It'll wash," Sherlock says after a silent moment.

Lestrade releases the coat, swiping at his face with quick, ineffective motions. He begins to pace.

"Really, I'm not trying to upset you," Sherlock says curiously. "Is there something else going on right now? Trouble with the wife?"

"Sherlock, she was gone before you were!" Lestrade says suddenly, halting. "No, I'm upset because...because, well, I've loved you for a very long time. Practically since I met you."

" _Loved_ me?" Sherlock's face screws up as he tries to make all the pieces fit. But he can't. Why on earth would Lestrade feel that way? 

" _Yes_ ," Lestrade says intensely, all his conviction wrapped up in the syllable. And, suddenly, Sherlock believes. He still doesn't know why, but he knows _that_ , and it's enough for him. He's not sure why it's enough.

"So, right." Lestrade's hands curl into fists, and Sherlock knows he's going to do one of those stupidly brave things he does. "If you can't stand bein' around me anymore, cause I'm, hell, defective now or something since I have googoo eyes...well, that's your problem."

Sherlock swallows. "No one's ever loved me before," he says in a hushed tone, as if they'll be overheard. "I mean, not like," he waves a hand at Lestrade and his tears and his snot.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't tell you why," Lestrade grouses. "I mean, till just now I thought you'd never know my first name. And I'm not sure how you never realized I was divorced."

"A preoccupied mind misses facts. Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock says casually. But he doesn't get anything past Lestrade.

"Wait. No, wait. You care for me too? Some, at least." His eyes are wider than Sherlock can remember them being. He's full of so many...feelings. Again. He's lit up with hope and caution and what must be love. He looks like comfort, like the occasional donut Sherlock had eaten on the job for him, unable to deny him his concern.

He looks like evidence bags bursting at the seams and like caution tape pulled well aside. Sherlock's mind is flooded with the chemical proof he had missed Lestrade, as well as thoughts he'd kept squishing down into insignificance, or else deleting.

"Greg," he says with a rawness he feels. "Greg, I care for you. Some." He gasps silently, looking at the man, taking a step back. He clutches at the air in front of him as he stares, deduces, remembers. "Some!"

Some is more than nothing. Some is the end of the sad road Sherlock had walked as he'd realized his heart had been there all along. Some is going to bring a future, if they let it. Sherlock chuckles a little, hears the answering chuckle, sees it on his old friend's face through drippy tears.

"Here," Sherlock says in an indulgent command. "Come here. I think a square inch of this coat may still be dry."


End file.
